“Maybe it’s time to hire a sitter. Sneak away for a few days,” Kristine says. “You and Daniel used have weekend getaways. There’s no reason you can’t still escape and do something nice for yourself for a few days. Visit a spa. Check into a posh hotel and just sleep in, order room service—”

“Kris, I’d hate it. It’d be lonelier than hell.” I make a face, wipe my eyes with the tissue. “I’m alone too much as it is.”

For a moment no one says anything, everyone bundled in their winter coats, and I’m suddenly embarrassed to have said so much. “But of course I’m alone more,” I add quickly, dabbing now at my nose. “It’s to be expected. I’m not married anymore, and most of the time I’m good with it. I thought I’d be lonely at night. I’m not. I’d much rather sleep alone than next to someone who doesn’t even care if I’m there. It’s just the other stuff… the work stuff, you know, sharing responsibilities. I think that’s the hardest part.”

They murmur assent, saying properly comforting things. But the sound of children squabbling reaches us, and the energy has shifted. It really is time for them to go. I hug everyone good-bye, thank the husbands for coming tonight, and then they’re all gone.

I shut the door.

My kids are standing on the stairs. I smile, banish the blues. “You guys hungry? Ready for some dinner?”

Jessica shakes her head, yawns. William shrugs. “Not really.”

Great.

“Not even a little turkey sandwich?”

“Maybe tomorrow, Mom,” William says.

“Okay.” I am not going to cry just because no one ate my dinner. “You’re ready for bed, then?”

“Santa’s coming, Mommy.” Jessica is suddenly her angelic self. “We have to go to bed so he can bring us lots of presents.”

My angel’s always thinking. “All right.” I give up. They win. No one needs turkey and chestnut stuffing and champagne-laced gravy. “Go change into your jammies. I’ll read you a quick story—”

“Santa Mouse?” Jessica interrupts hopefully.

“Sure.”

By ten o’clock, my kids are asleep, and after changing into sweats, I head back downstairs to confront the mess.

Dishes are piled in the sink. Sticky punch cups are stacked on the counter, while trays of dried-out appetizers jostle with dirty wineglasses. Red candles on the granite counter have melted into puddles of wax.

The dining room is even worse. The table is still crammed with platters and hot plates, serving dishes and bowls. The turkey is intact, drumsticks untouched. Only a dozen slices are missing from the nine-pound ham. The sweet potatoes are still glazed and dotted with bits of brown sugar. There’s a mound of rolls, with three dozen more still warming in the kitchen warming drawer.